Combat Machines

by Don Pendleton

  We’re blown! flashed through Bolan’s mind, and he whirled to leap at the cop, shouting, “Pistola, pistola, pistola!”

  He had just gotten his hands on the man’s shoulders and was driving him down behind the planter when the turbaned man grabbed a compact submachine gun from behind the bench and fired at them. Bullets tore through the air overhead, and into the nearby street, the very thing they were trying to avoid. Screams and shouts erupted all around them as people scrambled for cover throughout the plaza.

  The confused policeman went down underneath Bolan, struggling to draw his own pistol as he fought and kicked to free himself. Grabbing the other man’s wrist, the Executioner scrambled to pull out his own identification before he got shot. He managed to free his ID and thrust it in front of the man’s face before he could draw. “¡Americano! Americano agente!” he shouted. “¡Pedir refuerzos!” he said, ordering the other man to call for backup.

  Even more confused now, the policeman stared at the ID while more shots rang out, this time from behind Bolan. The Executioner glanced over to see Palomer returning fire, one arm hanging uselessly at her side. “You okay?” he shouted.

  She just nodded while continuing to put rounds near the shooter. “Just get him!”

  The local cop had finally gotten the picture and shouted into his radio, presumably for reinforcements. He had also drawn his pistol, and Bolan left him there and began crawling around the other side of the planter, intending to catch the turbaned shooter from behind while Palomer kept him occupied.

  He had just reached the far side when slugs whined off the corner he was behind, chipping off pieces of concrete and spraying them into his face. Bolan reared back, spitting out concrete dust and looking for the second shooter.

  But these rounds were coming from the far side of the plaza, where neither of the Russians were located. “Akira, we’ve got new shooters. Who are those guys?”

  “I was just about to let you know. Intel says there were four shooters outside the Hôtel de Marigny in Paris—these two are the rest of the Russian team!”

  Mikhail and Natalya had backup there the entire time—and didn’t tell them! Bolan thought.

  He looked around for the other two Russian agents, but they were nowhere to be seen. It was possible that they were pulling a double cross, especially if the Russians wanted to make sure there were no witnesses to the cleanup of their loose cannons.

  But judging by the fire coming from the other side of this planter, Bolan still had a larger problem to worry about—stopping the turbaned man before he turned the plaza red with the blood of innocent bystanders.

  But before he could take any action against either shooter, a bright flash and a deafening roar, followed by a column of smoke and ball of fire, erupted from the far side of the plaza.

  * * *

  THE MOMENT THE homeless man had been accosted by the cop, Nejem had sensed something wasn’t right. She tried getting Darsi’s attention, but he was busy watching his surroundings while keeping watch over the situation next to him out of the corner of his eye.

  She shot him a quick text warning him to stay alert, then glanced around, spotting a young woman sitting on a bench nearby reading from a tablet, with a baby stroller next to her. Nejem put a smile on her face and walked over to her. “My, what a cute baby!” she said in Spanish.

  “Oh, thank you—” Distracted by the sudden compliment, the woman looked up just in time to see Nejem’s pistol pointed directly at her face. The joy on her face was replaced by confusion at first, then fear.

  “Uh-uh. Just keep smiling, and you and your baby will live through this,” Nejem said, her own broad smile never wavering. “Listen to me very carefully, and do exactly what I say. Put the tablet away, pick up your bag, and then we’re going to walk in the direction I tell you to go. Keep smiling, and act like we’re old friends meeting up. Let’s go now.”

  Her hands trembling, the woman managed to jam her tablet into her bag and pick it up, slinging it over her shoulder. Under the guise of helping her, Nejem moved to her far side, keeping the woman between her and the rest of the plaza. “Take the stroller and move, right now, walking normally.”

  “Just don’t hurt my daughter,” the woman begged.

  “Do as I say, and she will be unharmed,” Nejem replied.

  Still smiling and pretending to talk to each other, the two women began walking toward the southwest corner of the plaza, where two buildings formed a wide corridor. They had only taken a few steps when a shout was heard from behind them, and Nejem turned back to see Darsi raise his submachine gun and begin to fire.

  “Get out of here!” She shoved her hostage toward the nearest building, then turned and started going back to help Darsi, only to see two more men with pistols drawn appear from the western side of the plaza. Taking cover behind another planter with a trash receptacle on its other side, they aimed at Darsi and cut loose.

  Oh, no you don’t, she thought. Ducking behind a nearby planter, Nejem pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number. When it connected, it activated a burner phone wired to one of the improvised explosive devices she and Darsi had created out of the items they had picked up at the store earlier that day.

  The powerful homemade bomb near the two men went off in a loud explosion and brief burst of flame. The trash bin seemed to swell for just a moment before bursting apart in a lethal spray of metal fragments. The top flew at least fifty feet into the air before crashing down again into the middle of the plants in the planter next to the destroyed bin, crushing them.

  When the smoke cleared, the two men were sprawled a few yards away, both bloody and motionless on the ground. Several bystanders had been caught in the blast as well, but Nejem didn’t care about them. Her only thought now was to keep the black-haired man and his companions occupied for as long as possible so Panshin could complete his work.

  Pistol in one hand, cell phone in the other, she stayed hunched over as she ran toward the blast site, now the safest place in the plaza. As she approached, Darsi was still firing at people she couldn’t see on the other side of him. She would take up this position and watch his back.

  As Nejem approached, she saw that one of the gunmen caught in the blast was still alive, although he was badly battered, with trickles of red streaming from his ears and nose. A jagged shard of metal had punched into his upper chest, and his whole shirt was stained with blood. Even though grievously wounded, when he saw her, he tried to raise his pistol, only to see that his hand was empty, the gun having been dropped or blown out of it.

  She raised her weapon and put a bullet into his forehead, then hunkered down and watched for anyone else who might be trying to ambush them.

  * * *

  WHEN THE BLAST faded away, Bolan knew only one thing—that the shooters who had been targeting him were no more. He glanced to his left to see Rosnovich and Kepar advancing toward him, weapons drawn, and for a moment he wasn’t sure if they were there to kill him or the rogue operatives. He kept his pistol ready in case they were about to try for him, but they just stayed low on their approach and reached the side of the planter next to him, Rosnovich watching the east side, Kepar taking the west.

  “The other team—they were yours, weren’t they?” Bolan asked.

  Rosnovich nodded. “Backup from Paris. We didn’t tell you because we weren’t sure we could entirely trust you.”

  Bolan resisted sighing. Cold War habits died hard. “So, can we take out these two out without having to worry about getting a bullet from each other?”

  The Russian nodded. “Yes, our common enemy needs to be killed right now. Thoughts?”

  “Keep the second shooter’s head down while I take out the turbaned one on the other side here.”

  All during their conversation, the turbaned man had kept firing, indicating he was well equipped.

  R
osnovich nodded again, then nudged his partner, quietly speaking several short bursts of Russian.

  Meanwhile, Bolan contacted Tokaido. “Where exactly is the second shooter?”

  “Just less than ten yards due east of your position. She’s at the bomb blast site, providing overwatch for the guy in a turban and making sure no one catches them in a cross fire from behind.”

  “Got it, thanks.”

  Bolan turned to look over at the far planter Tokaido had indicated, and saw a brief flash of movement there. “Okay, Mikhail, keep her head down, and I assume Natalya will distract Turban-head so I can get the drop on him.”

  “Correct, but how do you plan to do that?”

  Bolan nodded at the foliage over their heads. “Straight across. He’ll never expect it.”

  “Gutsy. Good luck.” Still crouched, the Russian exchanged places with Bolan, sticking his gun out and sending several shots toward the woman’s hiding place. At the same time, Bolan heard Kepar open fire on the other side of him.

  Time to move.

  Staying as low as he could, the Executioner crawled into the planter, moving aside the various grasses, ferns and flowers instead of crawling over them, so he could still retain some cover. The firing continued on all sides of him now, but no bullets chopped into the plant life around or in front of him, indicating that the others were doing a good job of keeping the two gunners distracted.

  The planter was roughly three or four yards across, but it felt twice as wide. Every step had to be carefully planned to disturb as few of the plants around him as possible. One arm at a time, one leg at a time, he got closer and closer to his target.

  And then, finally, he carefully pushed aside a thick tuft of grass to catch a glimpse of the turbaned assassin kneeling behind the stone bench as he traded shots with Palomer and Kepar. Slowly, Bolan brought up his pistol, careful not to make any sudden move that might draw the attention of his target. When he had the gun in place, he drew a bead on the man’s neck, planning to take him out with one well-placed shot. His finger curled around the trigger—

  And the damnable breeze blew again, swaying the tall grasses.

  The turbaned man’s attention was drawn to the movement, and he and Bolan’s gazes locked just as the Executioner squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The assassin did not drop his weapon and collapse with a fountain of blood spurting between the fingers clutched to his neck.

  No, surprisingly he moved out of the path of the bullet the instant before it left the muzzle. He wasn’t able to completely dodge the slug—it struck the tip of his chin as he lurched backward, gouging out a chunk of flesh and bone as it passed—but it did not kill him.

  What’s more, as he was falling, the turbaned shooter was bringing his submachine gun to bear on Bolan, and he fired.

  The Executioner hit the dirt as a stream of bullets mowed down the grasses and a small tree just over his head. He stuck his pistol up just far enough to know he could clear the lip of the planter and returned fire blindly, aiming in the general direction of where the shots were coming from and hoping to strike something.

  As soon as the shots had started, they stopped, and Bolan realized what that probably meant. Reload!

  Rising to his hands and knees, he crawled to the edge of the planter and, taking a deep breath, raised his pistol up to cover the area behind the bench, ready to fire the moment he saw his target.

  The spot was empty, with only a scattering of empty shells and the distinct, fading odor of a fired weapon the only signs he’d been there in the first place. Silence had descended, and Bolan craned his neck to try to see farther into the plaza.

  A gun cracked, and a bullet clipped the top of his ear even as a blur of movement from below told him that the assassin was hiding on the ground on the other side of the planter!

  Even as he tried to swing his pistol down, a grip as solid as iron grabbed his wrist and pulled hard. Before he could react, Bolan was flipping through the air, landing on the stone bench with breath-stealing force, hard enough to jar his pistol loose from his hand and send it clattering to the ground.

  He’d barely hit when he saw the butt of the man’s submachine gun blurring down toward his face. Bolan jerked his head out of the way just in time, and the end of the grip smacked hard into the seat next to him. Still trying to draw air into his lungs, he managed to kick up his leg, hitting the top of the man’s head hard enough to shove him back a bit.

  Bolan rolled off the bench onto the ground and pushed himself back onto his knees just as his attacker tried punting his head off with a front kick. The moment he realized that he’d missed he reversed it faster than any sensei Bolan had ever seen and brought it back down onto his head, hard. The man tried pulling his foot away, but the Executioner grabbed it first and leaned back, intending to pull him off balance, as well.

  Instead, the turbaned man rode forward with the movement and kicked out with his other foot, catching Bolan square in the nose. Fortunately, he was moving back, so the impact wasn’t as hard as it could have been, but it still hurt.

  Falling onto his butt, Bolan glimpsed the man break his own fall with his hands, so they were both sitting on the ground now. He took the opportunity to kick the submachine gun out of the guy’s hand, depriving him of that weapon at least. The only problem was that he seemed just as deadly with his hands and feet.

  Bolan still had his adversary’s foot trapped, and now he wrenched it as hard as he could to the right, hoping to break or at least sprain the knee or ankle, and gain some sort of advantage. But again the guy rolled with the move like he was a step ahead, turning with it as he kicked at Bolan’s fingers with his other boot. The hard sole smashed into his hand, and the assassin did it again, forcing him to let go before any of his fingers were broken.

  He didn’t have any time to recover or plan an assault, either; the man performed a rising handspring to gain his feet and advanced on Bolan immediately, aiming a punch at his face that would have finished the job his foot had started.

  Bolan rolled back to avoid the strike, kicking out with both feet to keep the guy off him, then back-somersaulting onto his feet and going on the offensive himself, lunging forward in an attempt to take his opponent by surprise.

  The unorthodox method worked, partially. He did manage to tackle the man, who had been aiming another punch at him, which bounced off his lowered shoulder. Bolan wrapped both arms around him and used his forward momentum to drive him backward off his feet, until both men smashed to the ground.

  * * *

  FROM COVER, HER wounded arm throbbing and her gun hand heavy from exchanging fire with the turbaned man, Marie Palomer watched the furiously fighting men go at each other, no quarter asked or given. If she had been 100 percent fit, she would have gone to assist, as hand-to-hand had never phased her. However, with one arm out of commission, she’d be more hindrance than help. Of course, trying to shoot into that close-quarters combat would be even more foolish. She would just have to trust that Cooper could take him down.

  Her gaze flicked to the motionless form of the police officer who had almost blown their whole operation. He’d been returning fire along with Palomer, when part of one of the turbaned man’s bursts had caught him while he was aiming, taking him down and, by the looks of his wounds, out.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, but it would be a few minutes before backup would arrive and lock down the area. Meanwhile, more gunshots sounded on the other side of the plaza, followed by distant screams and shouts, but there was still enough vegetation in the planter in the middle that she couldn’t see exactly what was happening over there.

  Instead, she noticed a few clusters of people taking cover under the benches or behind the other planters. Stifling a groan, Palomer got to her feet, and staying low, crossed to the nearest group, two women and one man huddled t
ogether.

  “You need to leave this area immediately,” she told them. “There are other bombs here. When I tell you, go quickly and quietly to the street and around the corner of the nearest building.” She poked her head up above the planter, but there was no firing—in fact, there didn’t seem to be any shooters nearby.

  “Okay, go now!” she urged. The women rose first, pulling the obviously terrified man along with them toward the safety of the nearby building. When no shots rang out, Palomer moved to the next group and did the same thing, clearing the entire section.

  She scooted over to the next one, which had a trash container next to it, and a family clustered around the corner of the planter. Palomer repeated her message and had gotten the family moving away when she spotted a large white paper bag hidden among the foliage in the planter itself.

  Dreading what she would find, she pushed a large fern aside to see the bag begin to vibrate, and she caught the shrill tone of a cell phone ringing inside.

  Without even thinking about it, she scrambled up and onto the bag, covering it with her own body to shield anyone still nearby. Squeezing her eyes tightly closed, she heard what sounded like a click and smelled an acrid odor before her entire world erupted in a blinding flash.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS Cooper and the turbaned man began exchanging gunfire, Sevaron and Zimin split up to try to get the drop on the female shooter. He broke left, and she went straight up the middle, gunfire from both of them keeping her head down. A few return shots came from her position, but nothing like the concentrated fire that had been coming from there less than a minute earlier.

  Taking cover on the eastern and southern sides of the planter, Sevaron signaled his partner to head around the other side, with him coming at her from the opposite direction in a five-count. It was risky, in that one of them was likely to get shot during the rush forward, but she wouldn’t be able to get them both before one put a bullet into her.